


In Which a Smiling, Laughing Woman Explains it All for Sherlock

by JellyflyButterfish



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Clever Women, Gen, Humour, Romance, my favorite headcanon, sherlock getting schooled
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-03
Updated: 2013-07-15
Packaged: 2017-12-17 14:18:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/868531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JellyflyButterfish/pseuds/JellyflyButterfish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The title says it all, I think.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Such a Mess

“Oh, God, what a mess!” John burst into the flat, followed closely by a young woman. At first Sherlock thought he was talking about the state of the flat as he often did, but looking up from his book, realized John was talking about himself. The doctor was covered head to toe with dirty water. He shook his blonde hair, sending droplets out in every direction. The girl held her hands up to shield her face.  
“For God’s sake, John!” she said, but she was laughing.  
“Lost a fight with a cab,” John said to Sherlock, peeling off his soaked jacket and dropping it on his chair as he moved into the room. “Tried to be chivalrous and protect the lady -- ”  
“And you did,” she smiled at the doctor. “Though opening your coat to shield me was probably not the wisest course of action. Now we’ll never make it to the theatre on time.” She turned her smile on Sherlock. “No great loss, though. Tickets were a gift from my mum, some flashy musical thing. Not my cup of tea. Nicer to spend the evening in the pub. Oh, I’m Eleanor, by the way.” She stepped toward the couch and held out her hand.  
“Ah,” was all the response she got, as the detective turned back to his book.  
But he was watching her, out of the corner of his eye. Brown hair, green eyes, understated makeup -- a touch of pencil and lipstick. A decent brown wool coat and red scarf. Sensible shoes for walking -- just a bit of a heel, not like some of the women John brought home with their four-inch monstrosities, towering over him like Valkyries. This one was small, shorter even than John. He noted, as she dropped her hand back to her side, she seemed quite unperturbed by his rude treatment.  
“I’m just going to have a quick wash and change.” John vaguely gestured towards several of the chairs in the room. “Just make yourself comfortable -- I’ll be back down in a bit.”  
“All right, no rush,” she said to his back as he charged up the stairs.  
Then the room was silent. Sherlock kept one eye on her and the other on his book. He wondered when she would start to “make herself useful” around the flat, as John’s dates often did when left alone with Sherlock for a moment. Stillness and silence were difficult for most people.  
Eleanor, though, didn’t seem to mind. Utterly self-possessed, she stood quietly in the middle of the room, letting her eyes wander over the odd objects scattered about: the skull on the mantel, the harpoon in the corner (cleaned), Sherlock’s coat and scarf tossed across the couch, the empty teacups and papers scattered across every available surface, the books on the shelves. He could see her looking -- he could, in fact, see her observing, but not judging, which was interesting.  
“I’m not going to start cleaning,” she said.  
“Excuse me?” He was startled enough by the strangeness of the remark to look directly at her.  
“I’m not going to start cleaning,” she said again. “Picking up John’s things and folding them into a pile on his chair. Gathering teacups and biscuit plates to put in the kitchen sink. Starting the washing up. Not going to do any of that. So don’t worry.”  
“Why would I worry about that?” Sherlock was curious. He was not often curious.  
She looked into his eyes, and he could see the smile in them. “Because women do that to mark territory. I assume women do that a lot in this flat, to mark John as their territory when they’re here, especially with you. I watched your eyes, glancing at me and the scattered clothes, me and the teacups, me and the kitchen. You were wondering when I was going to begin. I wasn’t. I’m not. Nor am I going to park myself in what is clearly John’s chair. If you don’t mind, I’ll sit right here,” she gestured to the wooden chair pulled a bit away from the table. “There’s a file on it, and I’d just set it on the table, if that’s all right with you?” She laid her hand on the papers.  
“Certainly,” Sherlock said slowly. “I appreciate your consideration.”  
“I thought you might,” she said, carefully moving the sliding pile from the chair to the table and perching on the edge of the seat. “My flat is a bit like this -- no skulls or harpoons -- but papers everywhere, all the time. It looks a wreck, but I know where everything is and it’s frustrating when people take it into their heads to straighten things up.”  
Sherlock nodded. “Indeed.” He closed his book. “And what is it that you do that requires all the papers?”  
“I’m a student. A quite old one -- ” she said hastily. “I’m actually almost John’s age, but people always think I’m younger -- I suppose because I’m small. Which is stupid, if you think about it. Small really has nothing to do with age when you’re over 15, but there it is.” She shrugged. “I see you like bees.” Her eyes were on the bookshelves again. “My father raised bees when I was a girl. Fascinating, the hive mind, isn’t it? All ruled by one simple brain whose only concern is survival and procreation. Back when I was younger and more cynical, I saw it as a model for most human societies. I’m a bit less cynical, now. And more conscious of that kind of reductive thinking.”  
“It is fascinating,” Sherlock said. “Quite.” The two looked at each other for a moment, each taking the measure of the one across the room. Sherlock had to admit that his woman was a bit different. He thought, at the beginning of the conversation, that she might be pandering to him, trying to get in his favor somehow. A number of John’s girlfriends had attempted that, bringing him gifts of biscuits (none as good as Mrs. Hudson’s) or asking him to join them down at the pub or trying to fix him up with their friends. None of that had anything to do with him, it always only had to do with John, the women demonstrating how lovely they could be to his difficult flatmate, how patient and tolerant they were with Sherlock’s foibles and oddities. But after one or two dates interrupted for cases, they would show their true colors quick enough -- possessive, demanding, with no understanding of the importance of the work, or of John to Sherlock’s work. They never lasted long after that.  
John came tromping down the stairs in his dressing gown, carrying an armload of clean clothes. “All right, almost there. Just need to get the street muck out of my -- “ He paused, noting Sherlock’s closed book and the fact that his date and his flatmate seemed to be having a conversation -- and Sherlock wasn’t yelling and John’s date wasn’t crying. “Everything okay, here?”  
“Yes, fine, John.” Eleanor smiled from her chair. “Take your time to get pretty.”  
John hesitated another moment. “All right then…”  
“For God’s sake, John, get into the shower, get dressed and get this girl out of my flat!” Sherlock snapped.  
Reassured that the world was still normal, John stepped into the bath and shut the door.  
“Such a mother, sometimes.” Eleanor shook her head fondly.


	2. Biology 101

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things are revealed.

Then her eyes sharpened and she looked directly at the detective, her green into his ice blue. “I have no intention of keeping him,” she said, abruptly. “I like him, very much. I like his company and his conversation -- and I might as well say I like his shagging, too.” Sherlock’s eyes widened a bit. “Oh, I’m a biology student -- graduate student. I forgot that bit. I study mammalian sexual patterns and habits -- makes me a bit blase talking about it. Shagging’s just one of those things mammals do. Humans have the most fun of it, though.” She leaned forward a bit. “I think John thinks my research is sexy.” She smiled.  
Sherlock, much to his own surprise, smiled back, agreeing with her assessment of John’s sometimes predictable ways of thinking. “I suppose he would, at that.” He kept watching her, the way she moved, how she sat, how her eyes made their way around the room -- looking for any signs of deceit, but there were none. As far as the consulting detective could tell, and of course, he could tell everything, she was being completely honest. Even, he saw, with herself, which was highly unusual. Most people lied to themselves all the time and it would be easy to believe she was doing just that -- lying to herself about not needing or wanting to “keep” John. Though he had yet to quite understand why she’d be explaining that to him. Her face was more open and honest a face than most he’d ever observed -- almost more so than even Molly’s, which was like reading a large-print book with a magnifying glass. Not pretty, really, but -- interesting, with her green eyes and rather big nose, her wide mouth and high cheekbones. Spanish? Portuguese? One of those. Likely the latter.  
“Portuguese,” she said. “With a bit of Italian and Irish to throw you off. But London born and bred.” Sherlock started. “I have an odd face, I know. People are always trying to figure out what I am.”  
She started to dig around in her purse. “Do you mind if I smoke? I’m rather desperate for one before we go out. John loathes it. Maybe if I stand by the window -- “  
Sherlock got up out of his chair and opened the window, setting the Buckingham Palace ashtray on the sill. “Please do,” he said.  
“Oh, he’s on you about it, too, I see. Come stand next to me, then, he’ll never know. We’ll be the bad schoolkids today.” She moved to the window and lit her cigarette. “Come on then.”  
Sherlock stood close to Eleanor, closing his eyes and inhaling the delicious smoke.   
She looked up at him. “I read your website. Fascinating stuff. Brilliant, really.”  
Sherlock opened his eyes. “The blog?”  
“Oh, no, though I’ve read that, too. I love the way John tells a story. Your website. The Science of Deduction. I get the airline pilot and the thumb, but you are going to have to explain the software designer and his tie -- I just don’t see the connection.” She dragged on her cigarette and exhaled out the window. “It must get tiresome, having to explain things all the time. It does for me, and I’m not nearly as clever as you.” She paused. “But I am clever enough. I see things, and figure things out. Probably just from all the science training, you know -- you have to be able to do that. Do you want one of your own?” Sherlock hovered over her, catching every little bit of smoke from the tip of her burning fag.  
“No. Been using nicotine patches -- stimulates the thought process, speeds things up. John is convinced I’ll die if I smoke at the same time.”  
“He’s probably right.” She waved the smoke towards his face and he breathed it in. “He’s right about a lot of things, those kind of things, I’ve noticed. Other things, not so much. Women, for God’s sake -- he’s told me about some of them, though only once I convinced him that I’m not long-term material. Okay to tell your shag-buddy about your ex girlfriends -- bad form to tell your new girlfriend about them.” She looked at the tall man over her, holding up the tail end of her smoke. “I’m done. You?”  
He sighed. “I suppose.”  
She stubbed it out in the ashtray, then tipped the dead butt into the street. “We’d best rinse this out, but for now, I’ll just shut it outside the window.” She closed it and sniffed. “Oh, dear. We’re definitely going to get caught.”  
She left Sherlock standing at the window, returning to her perch on the edge of the chair.  
“So you’re not the girlfriend.” Sherlock said. It was a statement.  
Eleanor laughed. “Oh, no. I told him on our second date, I’m married to my work.”   
Sherlock turned to stare at her, and her laugh expanded to fill the room. “And that’s exactly the look he gave me when I said it!” The laugh flew around him, touching his shoulders and hands, wrapping around him, warmly. It reminded him, a bit, of John’s laugh. No. That wasn’t right… “I am, though. Married to my work. I’ve had offers, but I’m not interested in any of that -- house, children, husband -- boring. I don’t even date much. Spend most of my time at the lab. John’s different, though -- he’s not boring, though I can see him getting boring if we took this any farther, say into house, husband, child territory.”  
Sherlock looked offended on behalf of his doctor -- John could be a bit dull sometimes, yes, but who was this woman implying that lengths of time in John’s company could in any way be boring? In the long term?   
She laughed again. “That is a brilliant face. I see love all over that face.” She shook her head.  
“I’m sorry?” Sherlock glared at her shining eyes.  
“Oh, you can’t intimidate me, Mr. Holmes. One, I’m a biologist -- I study animals and I know when they are, shall we say, ‘fronting’ aggression and when they are really threatening it. Two, I’ve heard far too many deeply affectionate -- in fact, loving -- stories from John to find you the least bit frightening. Three, people also often find me intimidating, despite my small size, as I have a tendency to say whatever I like and damn the consequences. I see that in you. We have more than one thing in common, Mr. Holmes.” She grinned. “And don’t you get all huffy at me drawing comparisons. I know you’re the cleverer of the two of us. But John, I’ll have you know, draws them all the time. I know he won’t say anything to you because you don’t care to hear it, but I hear it all the time. He gets so frustrated with me. I think it started with the ‘married to my work,’ comment. I believe you used that on him as well, yes? From the look you gave me a bit ago, I’ll go with the fact that I’m right.”  
Sherlock glanced at the door to the bath, where the shower had finally stopped running. John was meticulous about cleanliness -- probably since he hardly had a chance to take a shower in Afghanistan. He made up for it now, as their water bill often showed. “He’ll be out soon.”  
“Oh, it’ll be a bit while he dots the i’s and crosses the t’s. You’d never know it from looking at him in those damn jumpers, but he likes to look handsome. And he always does, doesn’t he?”  
Sherlock opened his mouth, ostensibly to protest he never noticed any such thing.   
“Oh for goodness sake, I would hope you’d have figured out by now you can’t lie to me about that.” It was Eleanor’s turn to look offended, though only in fun. “I’ve been watching you for the past twenty minutes--perhaps that’s an eternity for Sherlock Holmes and you’ve already figured out where I took my degree and the name of my mother’s pet parakeet, but every other moment for the past twenty minutes your eyes have gone toward wherever his is -- waiting for him to reappear at the foot of the stairs, waiting for him to come out of the bath -- you’re watching me, as well, but for half the time you would have had John not been about. Good heavens, my eighty-year-old Nana could tell, and she’s half blind!”


	3. The Laughing Woman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Eleanor sets ultimatums.

She got up and walked to the window, where the detective stood looking out at the street, and laid her hand on his arm. He started at the touch. No one ever touched him. Except John. “He’s wonderful, Mr. Holmes. He settles my racing brain, calms me down like a warm cup of tea. And sitting together on my couch in front of the telly in the evening, with his arms around me, is the safest, loveliest place I can imagine. But it isn’t the place that I belong. And not just because I’m married to my work, not just because I’m simply not wired that way, to be a girlfriend, a wife, a mother. It’s because all he talks about, when he’s holding me, is you. Stories from your cases, your insane science experiments--you really are going to blow yourself up someday, and I am giving you that warning as a fellow scientist who likes to blow things up, for God’s sake--the violin-playing at 2 in the morning, your complete and utter inability to get an empty teacup to the sink. I hear it all. And it doesn’t bother me a whit--I think that’s why he does it. Because I am someone he can hold while he’s thinking about you and I don’t mind.”  
She gripped Sherlock’s arm. “But I am not the person he wants to be holding, on the couch in front of the telly of an evening, Mr. Holmes.”  
He looked down at her, her green eyes staring intently into his. “Sherlock,” he said. “Please call me Sherlock.”  
She smiled. He thought she looked rather pretty, after all, when she smiled, and found himself glad she did it so often. John needed people who smiled in his life. Sherlock needed people who smiled in his life. Which was one of the reasons he needed John. John had a perfect smile.  
“I am going to make you a deal,” Eleanor said, softly. “You clearly need time to get this sorted. That’s fine. It’s a difficult thing. I used to be more like you, you know, completely unaware of the workings of my own heart.” She put her hand up at his attempted protest. “But I took the time to figure it out, and it did take time and it will take you time, and John, too, since your situation is a bit more, shall we say, complicated. But here’s the deal.” She reached up and rested her hand on his cheek, and Sherlock stood very still. “Heavens, this feels like I’m talking to a little brother. I bet you don’t hear that much! I am going to do this for you. Keep him occupied, keep him happy enough to stop him from seeing other women who might pose more of a -- threat. He knows I’m not interested in anything long term, and no matter what he says, I think that actually keeps him with me. He gets to have both worlds -- the one he has with you, and another one, where he gets shagged and still is allowed to talk about you all the time and run off whenever he likes with you without fear of me being all bitchy and put out. But when you are ready to take over my bit, the shagging bit in particular -- and stop looking shocked, I am a biologist and you are a grown man -- I am hoping that won’t be long, for both your sakes, I’m going to just let him go.”  
“And what,” Sherlock said, finding himself enjoying the warmth of her hand on his cheek and hoping it might go on for a bit longer, “do you get out of the deal?”  
“Three things,” she said. “First, John and I get to remain friends and spend time together sometimes--no shagging, just a pint at the pub and maybe an evening on the couch once in awhile. I don’t know if I can do without that mind-spinning-settling thing he does. I’m sure you know what I mean.”  
Sherlock nodded, “Yes. I do know.”  
“Second,” she said, nodding back, “you will make him happy. I’ll tolerate no less.” She made an effort at a glare, but failed miserably. How, Sherlock thought, had he not seen the joy in this woman as soon as she walked in the door? And how in God’s name did John find anything similar about her and him?  
“Third, and last,” she said, “if you ever have a case that hinges on the sexual habits of animals -- including humans -- you must text me immediately. I want to be your consulting biologist. Promise?”  
He paused, then pulled his phone out of the pocket of his dressing gown and handed it to her. She began to enter her number into the memory as John stepped out of the bath, looking clean, pressed, and happy.  
He looked at the two, standing in the window, the tall man and the short woman, the woman with Sherlock’s phone in her hand, and his face couldn’t seem to decide what to do. “What’s going on out here, then? I’m all ready to go--how does dinner at the pub sound?”  
“Mr. Holmes -- Sherlock -- ” she glanced up, eyes alight, “has agreed to take me on as his consulting biologist. I was just giving him my number for the next ‘biological’ case that comes up.” She passed the phone back to Sherlock, then walked over to the fresh, clean John, reaching up to kiss him on the cheek. “We have a deal, do we not, Sherlock?”  
“We do.” Sherlock had to admit to himself it was charming, seeing anyone over the age of ten having to reach up to John.  
“I’m just going to take a brief stop in the loo,” Eleanor picked up her bag from where it sat on the floor next to the chair. “Freshen up a bit. Be right back.” And she vanished through the door, closing it firmly behind her.  
John lifted his only clean coat from the hook on the back of the door, while Sherlock settled into his chair with his book. “You chatted with her then?” John asked, walking to his own chair. He moved his wet coat to the couch, and sat down. “She’s not so bad, is she?” John looked hopefully at his flatmate.   
“No,” Sherlock said, into his book. “You’ve certainly brought home considerably worse. She’s -- tolerable.”  
“Well, coming from you, that’s high praise. Amazing. She keeps telling me she’s married to her work, though -- I almost fell out of my chair the first time she said it at dinner, it was like I was looking at a little female you, just the same expression on her face, that ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, not again,’ look. And she goes on these -- I don’t know how to describe it -- these tears where she’s running around madly trying to figure out some problem on whatever project she’s working on, and I just vanish to her. I can get up and leave and come back an hour later and she won’t even have noticed I’ve gone. Or if I come back at all. That’s not so bad, though.” He shrugged at the detective, who wasn’t looking at him. “God knows I’m used to it. It’s kind of comforting, actually.”  
John stopped, lost in thought, and Sherlock allowed himself a single glance over the top of his book at the man across. To his surprise, John was looking right at him. “And have you heard her laugh? You must have done, she can’t go for ten minutes without laughing. It’s so full, like all the happiness in the world is stuffed into that one laugh.” He paused. “You laugh like that, you know. Not as often as she does, to be sure. But just like that, like all the joy in the world is packed into that one moment, like all the happiness you stomp on and shove down every day, for weeks, for months, comes bubbling up in one laugh. Eleanor’s laugh is my favorite thing about her, and it’s the thing that reminds me most of you.” There was a long silence as them men looked at each other across the wide gulf separating their chairs. “Funny thing, that.”  
The door to the bath swung open.  
“All right, Dr. Watson, let’s go tip a few, shall we? I assume Mr. Holmes in his dressing gown will not be accompanying us to the pub?”   
“Mr. Holmes will not, Miss Eleanor,” the detective agreed. “But thank you.”   
John stopped halfway through the motion of standing up. “Sherlock,” he said, “did you just politely refuse an invitation and then say thank you?”  
Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “I assumed that was the appropriate response, yes?”  
“Well, yes,” John stumbled a bit over his words, “but -- “   
“John,” Eleanor said, behind him. “Pints.” She grabbed his coat from his hands and put it over his shoulders. “This consulting biologist is thirsty. Mr. Holmes. Sherlock. You’ll be in touch, of course. Soon?” She grinned. Sherlock found himself fighting the urge to grin back. Grin? he thought Really?  
“Yes, I am sure I’ll be requiring our deal very soon.”  
“Brilliant. Good evening.” And she dragged John out the door and down the stairs, his “Deal? What deal? And were you smoking in my flat?” echoing along the ceiling and back into the living room, accompanied by Eleanor’s wonderful laugh. And Sherlock Holmes, to his great surprise, fought the urge, and lost, to send his back down the stairs after her.


End file.
